


You are the one, (I was meant to find)

by Squeaky



Series: The Soulmate Series (no one asked for) [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, M/M, Past Torture, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, marvel_bang_2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky
Summary: Steve Rogers is cold, homeless and suffering from pneumonia when James 'Bucky' Barnes, FDNY paramedic, scoops him off the street and takes him home. Steve is attracted to Bucky, but Steve has PTSD. Even when he finds out he and Bucky have the same soulmark symbol, he keeps it a secret. He's sure that Bucky could do better than him.Bucky has been in a relationship rut ever since his girlfriend Natasha found her soulmate and moved out. He despairs of ever finding the person who has the same soulmark. Even when he starts falling for Steve, he keeps it a secret. He's sure that Steve couldn't be his soulmate.The Universe knows both of them are wrong.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson
Series: The Soulmate Series (no one asked for) [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/820101
Comments: 33
Kudos: 346
Collections: Marvel Big Bang 2020





	You are the one, (I was meant to find)

**Author's Note:**

> The marvelous mood board was created by the incredibly talented [ Taste_is_Sweet. ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet) It's wonderful and she's wonderful and she also writes fic! Go check out her stuff it's 100% worth your time. 
> 
> Story title comes from the sad and sweet ["Rewrite the Stars"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yO28Z5_Eyls) from "The Greatest Showman", sung by Zac Efron and Zendaya.
> 
> This is the 9th work in my abuse-of-tropes soulmark series and it features symbols! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to post an update, but you know how it's been.
> 
> This was also written for the Marvel Big Bang 2020. Thanks to the mods for all their hard work
> 
> * * *

The guy was still there.

James "Bucky" Barnes pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his neck and hoisted his duty bag higher up his shoulder. Snow wasn't supposed to fall for a few more hours, but the wind had already picked up, and the temperature had dropped from that morning. He wished he'd worn a warmer coat. 

The thought made him glance over at the guy, still sitting by one of the doorways of a nearby building. He was either brave or crazy to set up shop right beside Station 99 in Brooklyn. While panhandling wasn't outlawed in New York City, the guy had to know he wasn't going to have a lot of luck in front of one of the FDNY’s EMS stations. People were always afraid to hang out there in case one of the ambulances had to leave quickly for a call. Not that the guy was actually asking anyone for change as they passed by. 

Which didn't make a lot of sense. People didn't usually give money to panhandlers when it was cold. Stopping to fish change out of a pocket or a purse took precious seconds that could otherwise be used to get somewhere with the promise of heat and shelter. So why wasn't the guy being more aggressive about it? He'd barely moved to acknowledge anyone who walked past him, let alone actually ask for money. 

And that begged another question: why wasn't this guy already somewhere warmer himself? Even though Bucky had only given him a quick glance as he left the station, it'd been pretty obvious that the dude wasn't wearing a coat, which was just damn stupid in weather like this. Bucky took a breath as he slowed his quick stride towards the subway. _You could leave it,_ he reminded himself. _Text one of the guys coming on shift to take care of it, and just go home._ The voice sounded like Natasha's in his head, blunt and real all at once. But even as the thoughts formed, he knew he wasn't going to listen. The wind seemed to follow him, sliding down his neck and making him shiver as he walked back towards the homeless man. But his gritted teeth weren't because of the cold. Just frustration with his own inability to leave this shit alone. 

_You don't always have to be the hero,_ Natasha's voice rang in his head. _You’re not the only Paramedic in Brooklyn._ And intellectually, Bucky knew she was right. But he also knew he didn't really believe it. He rubbed his left shoulder, gloved hand on the cloth of his jacket, thinking of the star beneath the fabric, pressed into his skin by fate. Maybe one day he'd feel like he could walk away, but today wasn't it.

"Hey, Mack," Bucky said, crouching down beside the guy. This close he could see that the man was younger than he'd first thought. A lot younger, like maybe only in his late teens. He was tall, but obviously thin and had the wary look of someone who'd been living on the streets for a while. His hair was a dull blond and cropped close to his head, mostly hidden by the hood of the dun-coloured sweatshirt he was huddled in. He had a worn black backpack clutched to his chest. His skin was flushed, which made the blue of his eyes almost luminescent in the streetlights. His first glance was right. The guy wasn't wearing a coat, and Bucky would bet that his shoes weren't that warm, either. "It's getting really cold out. I think it's time for you to pack it in for the day." 

The man raised his eyes to look at Bucky. "Thanks," he said. "But I feel hot." Then he coughed. It was a wet, hacking sound that came from somewhere deep inside the man's chest. Bucky winced to hear it. It sounded thick and messy, and Bucky didn’t need any of his medical training to know it signified a problem.

When he finished coughing, the man sagged back against the wall. He closed his eyes, clearly exhausted.

For a moment, Bucky thought about pulling out his stethoscope and evaluating the man’s chest right there, but thought better of it. It was too cold to do an assessment and it would just tell Bucky what he already knew: this guy needed a doctor. "You're sick. You need to go to a hospital." 

The guy cracked one eye open. "I can't afford it." His words were breathy, the hint of a rattle just audible as he spoke. 

"That doesn't matter," Bucky tried again. "You're sick. And the temperature's dropping. It's not safe for you to be outside." 

"Why do you care?" The guy snapped. "You looking for more converts for your church?"

The guy's attitude made Bucky smile. Even sick as he was, it was good to hear him trying to pick a fight. "Well," he drawled, "You're the one who crashed right in front of a Fire Station."

Now both the guy's eyes were open. "You a Firefighter?"

"Paramedic," Bucky said. "I was on my way home when your sorry ass got in my way. So, I’m going to call an ambulance to make sure you get to a hospital." He pulled out his phone and started to dial.

The guy put out his hand. "No ambulance!" He coughed again. 

Bucky grimaced at the hacking sound. "That cough’s really bad. You need a doctor."

"No ambulance," he said again. "Please." 

Bucky closed his eyes in frustration. "Fine, kid. No ambulance. But I ain’t leaving you here." He pocketed his phone.

The guy frowned. "I'm not a kid." 

"Sure you ain't," Bucky agreed amicably. "Can you stand, or you want me to help you up, old man?"

The guy laughed: a harsh, wheezy sound that ended up in another vicious cough. He groaned again. "My chest hurts." 

"Looks like." Bucky put the strap of his duty bag over his neck so it wouldn’t fall, then one of the man's arms over his shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. The guy was a bit taller than he was, but painfully thin. This close it was also very apparent that personal hygiene had not been a priority. The guy needed a sandwich and a shower. But first he needed a doctor. Bucky reached for the guy's bag, but the guy grabbed it quickly and held it to himself with one arm. He glared at Bucky.

"Don't touch my stuff." 

"Point taken." Bucky smiled. He had no interest in whatever crap the guy had in his bag. All he cared about was getting him off the streets and to a hospital where a higher medical authority would prescribe him antibiotics and two weeks of rest. Hopefully somewhere warm. 

Bucky managed to hobble the guy to the curb and flagged down a taxi first try which, for nearly five o'clock on a cold Wednesday in February, was a bit of a minor miracle. The guy didn't even protest, just sagged against the seat, eyes closed. 

"Maria Stark Memorial," Bucky told the driver. "And crank the heat."

"Can't afford a hospital," the guy muttered, eyes still closed. 

"Don't worry 'bout it," Bucky said. He'd decided he was going to foot the bill the second he'd suggested the guy go to hospital, and when he'd seen how young he was, well, that just clinched it. He'd just stop ordering in as much. And maybe buy a couple less beers at the grocery store. Maybe they’d charge him less because he was a paramedic. Maybe he’d have to transfer to the Fire side to make enough money to pay the bill. Whatever. It'd be fine. 

They drove in silence towards the hospital. Even though the holiday season was well past, there were still the occasional Christmas light that reflected off the cab's windows. A light snow had begun to fall, making the city look like something off a greeting card, beautiful and surreal all at once. 

Bucky pulled out his phone and texted Natasha with a sigh. He knew what was coming next. 

She wrote back almost immediately. **Who are you saving now?**

 **Sick homeless guy. Taking him to Maria Stark.**

**Too bad there wasn't a single paramedic still on duty in all of New York City who could've done that.**

He winced at Natasha's words, then glanced over at the guy to make sure he hadn't seen it. The guy was leaning against the door of the cab. Apparently asleep. 

Natasha texted him again. **I'm going to text Sam. He's working tonight. I'll let him know you're coming.** It wasn't acceptance of what he was doing, but it was Natasha's way of showing support. Sam was a Physician's Assistant at Maria Stark and Natasha's soulmate. She'd recognized the stylized spider shape on his bicep one night on-shift when she’d met him in the ED. Her matching spider was on her right thigh. That had been two years ago and they'd been together ever since. 

Sam was a great guy and now Bucky was really happy that Natasha had such a solid soulmate. But deep in his heart he'd always wished that he and Natasha would've been able to make it work even without matching symbols. But when Sam appeared…. He shook his head. There was no point in dragging that shit out into the light. Not when someone needed him. 

He looked over at the guy again, his flushed skin and gaunt features. He looked so sick and so terribly young. It was heartbreaking. 

_I'll take care of you,_ Bucky vowed in the quiet and the darkness. He rubbed at his shoulder again. It really was the least he could do.

* * *

_A paramedic._

Steve Rogers glanced over at the medic, keeping his eyes nearly closed as he pretended to be asleep. All he'd wanted to do was find a nice place that was mostly dry to rest for a while. His cold had really knocked the crap out of him, and sleeping rough wasn't helping any. Maybe choosing to crash outside a Fire Station hadn't been the best idea, but then again it sure had stopped people from harassing him while he'd been trying to sleep. 

It had never occurred to him that New York's Bravest employed Good Samaritans. But then again, this guy apparently made his living helping people. Maybe he didn’t think it was that big a deal. 

His brow creased at the thought. He'd once trusted people in uniform more than just about anyone. He'd been one himself after all, a lifetime ago. He shuddered. 

He should've been halfway to California by now, or at least somewhere further south where the weather wasn't as bad and the people were less surly. His throat thickened and tears burned against his eyelids as he thought about what he'd lost. He coughed again, losing all pretense of being asleep. 

The medic's eyes were on him, grey like the twilight outside and full of concern. "You okay?"

For a moment Steve didn't know how to answer that. He hadn't been okay for a long time. But he nodded, giving him a ghost of a smile. He really didn't want this guy worrying about him. Surreptitiously, he clutched his bag tighter in his lap. "I'll live."

"We're almost at the hospital," the medic said. His expression hadn't changed. 

Steve nodded and closed his eyes. He didn't want to look at the medic's sympathy, or his beautiful eyes set perfectly in his beautiful face. Steve had noticed right away, of course. It was in his blood to notice beautiful things, like how well the guys' coat sat across his broad shoulders, or how even his features were; how sharp his cheekbones, how sensual his mouth. _He's not for you,_ Steve thought bitterly. _No one is._ Gently he rubbed at the star in the middle of his chest, invisible underneath his layers of clothing. It was just another reminder that he was soulmate-less. Completely alone. 

He coughed again, his breath rasping against the sludge in his lungs. He felt hot, achy and ill all the way down to his bones. _Maybe I'll die from this,_ he thought. The idea wasn't painful at all.

* * *

Sam Wilson, PA and Natasha's soulmate, put his hands on his hips. "X-ray confirms it's pneumonia."

Bucky sat up, resting his iPhone on his knee. He'd been texting with Natasha while he waited for Steve's assessment to be finished. There'd been no real need for him to stay. Steve wasn't a child and Maria Stark Memorial tended to treat the members of New York's homeless population pretty well. But for some reason, Bucky couldn't compel himself to leave. _I just don't want to go outside in the cold,_ he told himself, and pretended it wasn't a lie. 

"That’s pretty much what I figured. How bad?" 

"It's not great," Sam said, "X-ray shows bilateral lower lobe consolidation."

Bucky winced at the description of the bottom of both of Steve’s lungs filling up with infected fluid. "Here’s hoping he’ll respond to antibiotics."

"We’ve already started him on IV ceftriaxone. It should perk him up in no time." 

"That's great!" Bucky smiled broadly in relief. "So, you’re going to admit him?" 

Sam made a face. "We're not admitting him. His illness isn't that serious and the med-surg floors are always jam-packed this time of year. Don't look at me like that! You know I tried."

"Sam, he's homeless!" 

"I know that," Sam snapped. "And I really don't want to send him to a shelter when all he's going to do is infect a ton of other homeless people. But my hands are tied." He ran a hand down his face. "Sometimes I really fucking hate this job." 

"He can't go back on the street." 

"I know!" Sam repeated angrily. "I wish we could just admit him. But we're having difficulty moving the patients who've already been admitted upstairs. It'll be impossible to get this guy a bed. Look, I'll talk to Dr. Banner, convince him to keep him in the emerg for a few days. Just until his antibiotics kick in."

"The emerg? Really?" Bucky just managed not to roll his eyes. He liked Sam now; he really did. Especially as Sam was Natasha's soulmate. But he couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice. "Sam, come on!" 

"I don't like it either! But he's sick and right now keeping him in the emerg is the best we've got. At least here he'll be warm, dry and fed. It's not great, but it's the best I can do." 

Bucky looked around the emergency department. It was crowded and noisy with tons of staff and even more patients. He knew from experience that the level of purposeful activity never slowed, even in the middle of the night. Hell, the lights never got shut off. It seemed impossible to imagine Steve getting better in an environment like that. Bucky's shoulder twinged where his symbol was, a constant reminder of the expectations of the Universe, and Bucky realized he had no choice. "He can come home with me." 

"Wait, what?" Sam said. "Are you serious?"

"I got the space," Bucky said. He got a perverse thrill of pleasure seeing Sam wince. 

"But you don't know this guy," Sam persisted, clearly ignoring Bucky's jab at the hospital. "What if he's a serial killer?"

Now Bucky indulged himself with an eye roll. "He's just a kid, Sam. I'll be fine." 

"You really do have a saviour complex," Sam said, and then, "Okay, fine," in response to Bucky's glare. "I'll discharge Steve into your capable hands." 

"Thanks," Bucky muttered. 

"Hey, it's your funeral," Sam said. 

Bucky smirked. "I didn't know you cared." 

"It's not about _you_. I care about _me_ figuring out how to explain it to Natasha when we find you with an axe through your head."

Bucky laughed at that. "We'll be fine." 

Same raised one eyebrow. "I hope you will be. Assuming Steve will want to go with you."

"He'll want to," Bucky said far more casually than he felt. As soon as he'd offered for Steve to come stay with him, it'd felt _right_ in a way not many things had since Natasha left. He really didn't want Steve to say no.

* * *

_I should've said 'no.'_ The thought kept bouncing around Steve's head. It was there while Dr. Banner explained his discharge instructions and how to take his antibiotics. It remained there as Sam, the very nice P.A., removed his IV. It was still there when he went with the Paramedic, who’s last name was "Barnes", into a taxi, and it stayed while Barnes let him through the front door and to the elevator of his apartment building in Flatbush. 

The apartment was a one-bedroom with wooden floors and white walls almost completely devoid of pictures but showing multiple holes where they used to hang. The living room held the prerequisite couch in a strange burgundy colour, and loveseat in a dark blue, both of which faced a wall with a large flatscreen tv. There was a small table in the kitchen with four wooden chairs and a bowl of fruit that held one wrinkled apple. Next to the bowl was a pile of mail along with four used glasses. Used dishes rested in the sink in the kitchen and the couch was draped with clothing. 

"Sorry," Barnes muttered as he attempted to clean up. "Wasn't expecting company." 

"It's fine," Steve wheezed. He sat heavily on the couch, feeling tired and achy and terribly hot. He pulled his bag up to his chest and closed his eyes.

"Don't sleep yet, buddy," Barnes said. He knelt, and to Steve's surprise, took off his shoes. Barnes grimaced. "These are soaking wet."

Steve shrugged, not bothering to answer. Barnes had seen the weather outside.

"Your shirt's wet too, I'll bet," Barnes continued.

Steve nodded. It had been wet for a while and had soaked through the long-sleeved Tee he wore underneath. The cloth was chilly and damp against his skin. But he was so hot that it was almost pleasant.

"I'm gonna get you something dry, 'kay?" Barnes said, and then Steve was left alone. 

He was gently shaken awake a moment later, and opened his eyes to find himself staring deep into an ocean of grey. "Time to change your clothes, buddy." 

Those eyes were far too attractive, and Steve's heart lurched. It made him cough, which made his chest ache. He just wanted to sleep. "I'll do it later," he muttered. 

"You can't sleep in wet clothes. It'll make your pneumonia worse," Barnes said reasonably. "It'll only take a minute. C'mon. I'll help." 

The idea of Barnes helping him get naked was as compelling as it was horrifying. Steve rubbed at his chest where his symbol was. "No." 

"Fine, I won't help. But you gotta do this, Mack. It's important." 

"Okay!" Steve said as sharply as he could with the breath sticking in his lungs. He put his bag down and lurched to his feet. He swayed and probably would have fallen, except for Barnes' strong arms holding him upright. 

"You sure I can't help?"

"Don't want you to see my symbol," Steve muttered. That wasn't the real reason, but he knew it was one that Barnes would respect. Symbols were private, after all. You didn't just show them to anyone. 

"Sure," Barnes agreed easily, as Steve knew he would. "I just don't want you to fall over." 

"I'll be fine." Steve wasn't sure that was true, but there was no way he was going to be naked in front of Barnes. He just couldn't. Not when things were so different. When _he_ was so different. His dignity was the only thing he had left. 

"If you insist." Barnes took a step back, hands still outstretched as if he was afraid to truly let go. Steve balanced himself as best he good, then turned to Barnes. He smiled. 

"See?" 

"I see a guy who's too stubborn to admit he's about to fall over," Barnes muttered, but he lowered his hands. "I'll go into the next room so you can get changed. But if you need anything, you holler, okay?"

"Okay." Steve gave a swift nod.

"Okay," Barnes echoed. He backed out of the room, clearly expecting Steve to keel over at any second. Finally, he was gone.

Steve took a shuddering breath, willing himself to not just sag back onto the couch. He knew that Barnes was right: sleeping in his wet clothes wouldn't do him any good, and it would probably ruin the couch, too. But he was so tired that the thought of pulling his shirt over his head made him want to cry. He straightened his back, forcing himself upright. He wasn't going to cry over this. He wasn't going to cry at all. He was going to change his clothes. No excuses. 

It was incredibly difficult to pull the wet and heavy fabric of his hoodie over his head, and by the time he'd finished he was shaking. He wanted to lie down, he wanted to _fall_ down, but he knew that Barnes was probably hovering just out of sight. Unless he wanted Barnes to see him naked, he needed to finish this on his own. 

Taking off the long-sleeved Tee was easier, and putting on the soft, warm and _dry_ sweatshirt that Barnes gave him felt like heaven. It was a dark navy blue with the FDNY logo on it and as soft as a kitten. His wet jeans and underwear were discarded for a pair of black sweatpants, also with the FDNY logo on the leg, and equally as soft. _Black and blue, like a bruise,_ Steve thought. He felt like he was bruised, inside and out. From the coughing and the illness, but also from everything that had led him to this point, where he had to depend on the kindness of an off-duty medic or literally die in the cold. 

It was too much for him to think about. He collapsed onto the sofa and lay down. The sofa was long, but it wasn't longer than six feet, so Steve curled his legs up so he'd fit. He'd forgotten to change his wet socks and his feet were uncomfortably cold. But his strength was gone. There was nothing left inside him. He felt hollowed out and empty, exhausted down to the fibre of his being. He closed his eyes.

* * *

The kid hadn't changed his socks. 

Bucky frowned as he looked at Steve, laid out on the couch and obviously dead to the world. He'd had the IV dose of antibiotics before he left the hospital, and his second dose wasn’t due until the next morning. Bucky would’ve liked to get some food into him, to start building up his strength, but it was probably better if he just slept. But Bucky didn't want to let the wet socks go. Steve needed to be warm and that included his feet. Without even touching them Bucky knew they'd feel like ice. 

He draped the blanket over Steve, making sure to tuck it around the kid's shoulders. He was barely more than muscle and bone, lean like a long-distance runner who'd been on a starvation diet. Bucky's frown deepened. How long had this kid been on his own? 

_Maybe you should stop calling him a kid,_ Bucky's brain supplied as he moved to the end of the couch to stare at Steve's sock-covered feet. _You don't know his age yet. He might be older than he looks._ That was true, Bucky mused, but he still doubted that Steve was much older than Bucky's first impression. He looked like he was still in high school, or maybe first year university if you were generous. Bucky was on the wrong side of twenty-five and some days he felt positively ancient. Looking at a kid so young in such dire straights really broke his heart. 

The symbol on his shoulder itched, and Bucky smiled grimly. The Universe had wanted him to take care of this kid, he was sure of it. No matter how Natasha had busted his chops for it. She might not like how often he did stuff like this, called it his "saviour complex". But her symbol was a big black spider, so what the fuck did she know? 

Gently, he hooked his fingers through the top of one of Steve's socks and pulled it down his ankle and off his foot. The smell wasn't great but Bucky had been a paramedic for a while. He'd definitely smelled worse. He repeated the motion with the second sock. Steve's feet were as long and thin as the rest of him. His skin was very white, and his toes were a soft pink. For some reason, seeing Steve in Bucky's sweats with his toes bare made something both protective and vulnerable rise up in Bucky's chest. It was a feeling he wasn't used to, but it made him think of Natasha and mornings when they'd both been off shift and she'd been lying naked in their bed… He shook it off and busied himself tucking the blanket around Steve's feet until the appendages were no longer visible. 

Natasha was with Sam now. He had to get over it. That was all. 

Steve hadn't moved the entire time. Quietly, Bucky picked up his wet and smelly clothes and put them into his washing machine. It had seemed like a big, unnecessary luxury to get a small upright washer/dryer for their apartment when they'd first moved in, but now it was Bucky's favourite appliance. It meant he didn't have to guard the machine downstairs while he washed his uniform anymore. That by itself was totally worth it. 

It also meant that he didn't have to leave the apartment while Steve was sleeping. He had no idea how long the kid would be out for, but he figured it'd be awhile, but if he did wake up, Bucky wanted to be there. He was pretty sure a good night's sleep had been all but impossible for Steve since he'd ended up on the street. 

Bucky wondered how that happened. _Drugs?_ he thought as he eyed Steve's bag. Drugs were one of the usual suspects when a young person ended up homeless. It was appalling how quickly a normal life could fall apart when drugs were involved. His fingers twitched with the urge to go into Steve's bag and see what he had in there. He'd told Sam that he'd be fine with Steve in his apartment, but if there were drugs in the bag there was also a risk that Steve could overdose and die. He might be sympathetic to the overwhelming need to get high, but there was no way he'd let Steve put himself at risk on his watch. He was a medical professional, for fuck's sakes. That shit just couldn't happen in his home. 

Purposely, he turned away from where Steve was sleeping and went into the kitchen before he did something stupid and invaded his privacy. The kitchen ran parallel to the living room and there was a bar counter the separated the two areas so that you could see from one into the other. It meant that Bucky could keep an eye on Steve while he figured out what to make himself for diner. Normally he'd have come home and gone to the communal gym downstairs before eating whatever leftovers he could find in the fridge and washing it down with a beer. But the trip to the hospital had definitely altered his routine and now he was hungry. He wondered if Steve would want to eat when he woke up, and then decided not to worry about it. Most likely Steve would sleep until morning. 

Bucky found some leftover pad Thai that still looked appetizing, grabbed a beer and sat down at the table to eat. The pad Thai was cold from the fridge, but he was reluctant to use the microwave in case the beeping woke Steve up. Kid needed his sleep. That was obvious. 

Bucky ate the food and drank his beer, and then realized he had nothing else to do. It was already past 11 O'clock and Bucky was tired. Normally he'd watch something on Netflix or read for a while, but now Steve was there, and he couldn't even feel disappointed. He'd just finished his set of shifts after all, it probably wouldn't do him any harm to go to bed. 

Bucky stifled a yawn and stood to turn out the lights. He gave Steve one last lookover, taking into account the faint flush to his cheeks and the steady rise and fall of his chest. He wasn't well, but he'd had his antibiotic. Bucky didn't need to watch over him. 

He shut off the light and made his way to the bathroom. He put out an extra towel and a spare toothbrush he'd gotten from his dentist on his last visit, hoping that Steve would get the hint if he got up first. He debated leaving a note but then changed his mind. Steve wasn't stupid, he'd figure it out.

A few minutes later, Bucky stripped down and slid into bed. Normally he slept in only his underwear, which was a compromise that happened after the first time the fire alarm had gone off in the middle of the night and Natasha had laughed and laughed while he'd fumbled for his pants. Tonight, he grabbed a clean T-shirt and threw it on, making sure the sleeve was long enough to cover his star. Steve had been right before when he didn't want Bucky to see it. Symbols were private. Steve shouldn't have to see Bucky's unless he wanted to.

 _Do I want him to?_ Bucky blinked at the question. He hadn't thought about Steve like that, not until this second. Yeah, he'd noticed the kid was attractive, in a sort of orphaned street urchin kind of way, but nothing about him had indicated that Steve was interested. If anything, it was pretty obvious that Steve wanted to be anywhere else but in the apartment of a stranger. In fact, it wouldn't surprise Bucky too much if by morning, Steve was gone. 

"Time will tell," Bucky muttered. He'd left Steve's antibiotics on the kitchen counter where it'd be hard to miss if the kid were to bolt. He'd also left 20 bucks just in case. He doubted Steve would take it. _At least let your shoes dry first,_ Bucky thought. He pulled up the covers.

* * *

"Steve! _Steve!_ "

Steve flailed violently. He struck at the hands holding him, desperate to get away. He tried to stand and couldn't. There was something around his ankles. _There was something around his ankles!_

"Steve!" the voice cried again, "it's a blanket, it's just the blanket! Stop fighting!"

Suddenly, he was awake. "What?" he croaked, before he doubled over with coughing. 

"Easy, easy." Barnes rubbed his back, his touch both grounding and soothing. "You're okay." 

Finally, Steve's lungs cleared enough for him to draw breath. He was sitting on the couch in Barnes' apartment. The room was softly shadowed from the ambient light coming in the living room window: enough to see by, but not enough to disturb sleep. There was a blanket on the floor.

Barnes was still rubbing his back. "You were having a nightmare so I woke you up. I hope that's okay." 

"It's okay," Steve wheezed. His chest was aching with the force of his coughing. His ribs felt like they'd been stretched beyond their normal shape. His heart was still pounding, the remnants of adrenaline leaving him feeling jittery and a little bit queasy. He put his head in his hands. 

"That musta been some nightmare," Barnes said. 

Steve nodded. "Uh huh." 

"That, uh, normal for you?" 

Steve could hear the unease in Barnes' voice, along with the thread of concern. "Yeah. Bet you're sorry you invited me home now." He meant it to sound like a joke but it just came out sad.

"No," Barnes said immediately. "I'm just sorry you have those nightmares." 

"Try living through the real thing," Steve said. "Ten times worse." 

Barnes' hand went still on his back. "What happened?"

Steve shook his head. "Never mind." 

"Okay," Barnes said easily, probably relieved that he wouldn't have to hear about it. "But talking about that kind of stuff helps. I could find you someone to talk to. A therapist, if you want." 

"I don't want," Steve grit out. His stomach rolled just at the thought of saying any of it out loud. "I'm fine." 

"Sure you are," Barnes said. He got up from the couch and came back with a glass of water and two pills. "Antibiotics and a pain killer. All that coughing's gotta hurt." 

"Thanks." Steve took the pills and swallowed them, and then downed all the water. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. Wordlessly, Barnes took his glass and refilled it, watching Steve drink with compassionate eyes. 

"You know, Steve, I'm a medic," Barnes said conversationally. "And I've seen some shit. If you ever want to talk—"

"I won't!" Steve said sharply. He took a deep breath, wincing with the way it made his torso ache. "But thanks," he finished lamely. "I appreciate it." 

"Sure." Barnes stood. "Well, it's still the middle of the night, and you're probably tired 'cause I know I am. I'm going back to bed. You need anything?"

 _Not to be left alone._ It was right on Steve's tongue to say it. The vestiges of the dream hadn't left him. He felt shaken and upset and very, very afraid. He knew that it would all come roaring back the second he closed his eyes. _Please stay,_ his thoughts pleaded. "I'm fine," he said instead. He rubbed his chest over his symbol. 

"As long as you're sure." Barnes rubbed at his left shoulder, then stretched, tightening his T-shirt across his torso and giving Steve a glimpse of a strong chest and flat abs. He looked at Steve again. "You going to be able to go back to sleep?"

"Yeah." Steve nodded. He lay back down and made a big show of getting comfortable against the couch cushions. "I'm asleep already." 

Barnes laughed. "Okay, kid." He picked up the blanket and put it over Steve, then quickly tucked it around Steve's shoulders like he was really the kid Barnes kept calling him. 

"What's your name?" Steve asked suddenly. "I mean, the doctor in the hospital just called you Barnes, so I've been doing that in my head…" He hoped the room was too dark for Barnes to see him blush. 

Barnes' smile was just visible in the low light. "James. But my friends call me Bucky." 

"Bucky?" Steve repeated, "and you're calling me "kid"?"

Bucky laughed again. "Smartass." He ruffled Steve's short hair. "Sweet dreams." He left.

"Good night," Steve called after him. Then he was in the darkened living room by himself. Alone. 

"No more nightmares," he whispered into the dark. "Please."

* * *

By the time Bucky got up it was mid-morning and the cool winter sunlight was pouring through the living room window. 

Steve was still asleep, which Bucky thought was a small miracle. He'd never witnessed a nightmare like that before and certainly had never had one that bad himself, but he was sure he'd never have been able to get back to sleep. It was good news that Steve had been able to. He clearly needed his rest. 

Steve's face was still flushed, but he looked more relaxed, and his breathing sounded less wheezy, which Bucky took to be a good sign that the antibiotics were working. There were dark shadows under his eyes that looked like bruises against his pale skin. Bucky hadn't noticed them yesterday, nor how long Steve's lashes were, or how delicate his cheekbones. He turned away, feeling like a huge creep for staring at Steve while he was sleeping. 

His phone _pinged_ and he scooped it off the kitchen counter where he'd left it the night before. It was Natasha.

**How's the serial killer? You dead yet?**

Bucky sent back the 'LOL' emoji and an emoji of an extended middle finger.

 **Cute.** Natasha wrote back. **But seriously. How are you?**

Bucky felt a glow of warmth in his chest. They might not be lovers anymore, but Natasha was still his best friend in the whole world. She was closer to him than anyone. **Good.** he wrote back. **I think the antibiotics are working.**

**Thank God for modern medicine. Wanna meet for brunch?**

Bucky paused, thumb hovering over the 'thumbs up' emoji that he badly wanted to send. He glanced at Steve, who was still sleeping like he'd invented it. There was no telling when he'd wake up, or if he'd have another one of those terrible nightmares. There was no way Bucky wanted him to experience something like that alone. **Can't.** he finally wrote. **I don't want Steve to wake up by himself.** He winced as he sent it, steeling himself for her response. 

**I guess I can understand that.** Natasha wrote after what felt like an eternity, which she immediately followed up with: **But don't forget, you're not his priest, his social worker or his dad. It's not your job to save him.**

 _I don't want to be his dad,_ Bucky tho¬ught, and then blushed even though there were no witnesses to the workings of his mind. **I know. But I'm still going to help him.** he texted back with a sigh. He slipped his hand underneath the short sleeve covering the star on his shoulder and traced it with his fingertips. He couldn't feel the design on his skin, not really, but he followed it with his mind's eye, imagining every straight line and sharp point. The symbol meant everything to him, because it had made him who he was. He would spend the rest of his life living up to the Universe's plan for him. He just wished Natasha could understand. 

**Just be careful.** she texted back. He sent her the 'thumbs up' emoji and tossed his phone back on the counter before putting his hands on his hips. 

Steve was awake and staring at him. 

"Oh, hey." Bucky shook off the annoyance Natasha's texts had left him with. "Welcome back to the world of the living. You hungry?"

Steve sat up. He coughed, but it was less deep and phlegmy then before. He tilted his head as if considering. "I could eat." 

Bucky noticed that Steve had slept with his bag tucked in beside him, like he didn't trust Bucky not to touch it. _What was in that bag?_ Bucky stored the thought for later. "Good idea," he said in response to Steve's words, "because you really shouldn't be taking your pills on an empty stomach." He opened the cupboard. "So, what'll you have? Oatmeal? Eggs? Toast?"

"Toast sounds fine," Steve said. He got up slowly as if his body was sore. Bucky's brow creased. 

"You need some more pain meds?"

Steve shook his head. "Just a shower, I think. Do you mind?"

"I got a towel set out for you and everything. And your clothes are clean and, in the dryer, if you want to put them back on." 

"I thought I'd just keep wearing these?" Steve pulled at the FDNY sweatshirt he was wearing. 

"Knock yourself out. I probably have a hundred of those shirts by now. Toast before or after your shower?"

"Before please." Steve shuffled over and sat at the table, angling himself so he could watch Bucky as he made toast. "So how long do you need to work at the FDNY to get a hundred sweatshirts?"

Bucky smirked. "I've been with them for six years, if that's what you mean. I joined right out of college, soon as I could." 

Steve nodded. He was leaning on the table as if it was hard for him to keep his body upright. One bare foot was crossed behind his ankle as if he was trying to keep warm. "You always want to become a paramedic?"

 _It was my destiny,_ Bucky almost replied. "Sure," he said, but he couldn't stop his hand from going to his star. 

"Huh," Steve said, and then sagged a little, like the response had taken all of his energy. He might be better than he was, but he was obviously still really sick.

"Why don't you go back to the couch where you can keep the blanket on," Bucky said. "And I'll bring you your breakfast."

"You don't have to do that," Steve said, but he got up and went back to the couch anyway. He curled up in the blankets, looking pale and wan. 

"Toast is almost ready. You want butter, jam or both?" 

"Just butter, please."

Bucky brought him over his toast, cut into triangles like his grandmother used to do for him. "I made you some tea as well."

"Thanks," Steve said. And then, "Why are you doing this?"

"What?" 

"Being so nice to me?"

Bucky stood back and crossed his arms, feeling strangely called out. _It's not your job to save him._ "Why shouldn't I?" 

"Because people aren't normally nice like this," Steve muttered. "At least not to homeless people."

"Maybe you've met the wrong people." 

That startled a small laugh out of Steve. "Maybe." 

"Look," Bucky sighed. "I know what other people can be like, alright? Even my paramedic colleagues. Some are good and some are bad. Just like anybody. But me? I try to do better." 

Steve nodded. "Well, thank you, Bucky. For being better." He smiled.

Bucky smiled back. "My pleasure."

* * *

It was amazing how good the shower felt. 

Steve couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to get fully clean, or stand under a stream of water hot enough that it almost hurt. His hair was close-cropped, close enough to his skull that the hairs prickled under his hand when he rubbed shampoo over his head, but he still made a point of washing twice. The shampoo smelled like cedar and musk and probably exactly like heaven, and Steve never, ever wanted to get out. 

The bar of soap that Bucky had given him smelled just like soap, and Steve imagined Bucky rubbing it all over his body the way Steve was doing right that moment. He let his mind wander, thinking about the smooth ridges and planes of Bucky's body; the dips and angles of his muscles and bone; the curve of his neck into his shoulder; the crease of his hip. 

Steve's cock hardened, and his face heated, turned on and embarrassed at the same time. Bucky was incredibly attractive, but also kind and generous in a way that showed he was as beautiful on the inside as he was on the outside. Fantasizing about him in the shower was the poorest way to pay back that kindness. 

Steve slammed down the thoughts of Bucky and focussed on getting clean. It had been ages since he'd smelled anything but foul and he took his time with every crack and crevasse, excited at the prospect of actually smelling good. He scrubbed his hand across his chest, cleaning the skin that showed his symbol. The star was smack in the middle of his chest, symmetrical on his sternum. A curse and a calling all at once. 

He glanced down at it as he washed, once again wondering why he'd been chosen for such a powerful emblem. A rush of shame filled him and he looked away. He'd been so excited when it appeared when he'd turned sixteen. So honoured that the Universe had chosen it for him. Now all he felt was remorse and regret, and a deep sense of shame. He'd never lived up to the Universe's expectations of him. Never become who Fate had wanted him to be. He'd tried and failed, and now that was all he was: A failure. 

He turned his face to the shower spray, letting it wash away his tears as soon as they formed. He braced his hands on the tiled wall, shoulders shaking as he cried. The water flowed over his back; across skin he could no longer bear to look at.

It brought up a memory, as unwanted as it was brutal. Abu Bakar standing over him, laughing…

Steve moaned and sank to the floor of the shower, back against the cool tiles and knees drawn to his chest. He huddled there, water sluicing over him, shuddering at the memory of fear and pain that never seemed to end—

"Steve?" Bucky called through the locked doorway. "You've been there a while. You okay?"

The voice was like a rope to a drowning man, and Steve clutched it. "Yeah," he called back. His voice was thick with tears.

"You sure? Because I can come in, if you want." 

Steve's heart surged. "No!" he shouted. The idea of Bucky seeing his back was horrible. "No. Please, don't come in. I'm fine." 

"Okay," Bucky said, and Steve let his shoulders sag in relief. "You coming out?"

"Yeah," Steve called back. "Give me a minute." 

"Okay," Bucky said again. "I'm right here if you need." 

Steve got up, turned off the shower and stepped out, immediately going from hot to cold. He shivered and coughed, fumbling for a towel. It felt like it took ages to get dry, and he was exhausted and chilled by the time he'd finished. 

He pulled on his borrowed sweats and opened the door. Bucky was right on the other side, arms crossed and expression grim. "I didn't like how long that took." 

"I was dirty, okay?" Steve scowled. "You're not my mom." 

Bucky's expression didn't change. "I was just worried, is all. You're not well." 

"Tell me something I don't know." Steve collapsed back on the couch, feeling awful. He'd hoped the shower might've helped with how sore his body was, but no such luck, and the memory of Bakar had shaken him as badly as the worst of his nightmares. He coughed thickly. 

"Glad we're both on the same page," Bucky said. "Maybe you should go back to sleep?"

Sleep sounded amazing. Even hearing the word made Steve's limbs feel heavy and his eyes want to close. But he remembered his vision in the shower. He knew it was just waiting to turn into a nightmare as soon as he closed his eyes. "I'm not tired," he lied.

"Okay," Bucky said disbelievingly. "How 'bout we watch a movie then, huh? Shove over." Dutifully, Steve moved so he and Bucky could share the couch and Bucky sat down. He looked at Steve. "You should put on the blanket." 

Steve picked up the blanket and let Bucky help him wrap it around his shoulders. Bucky glanced down, then got up and returned a moment later with another blanket which he quickly wrapped around Steve's feet. Not too tight, so he could quickly kick it off if he needed to. Clearly, he'd remembered Steve's nightmare. That small act of kindness settled under Steve's ribs, achy and warm all at once. He cleared his throat. "What're we gonna watch?"

"Anything," Bucky said. "I'm not picky." He cued up his Netflix account and chose the first show that appeared. It was a Spanish drama about telephone operators in the 1920s, the subtitles flashing by as fast as the actors spoke, and nearly too fast for Steve to keep up. It made him feel tired. He closed his eyes. 

"You wanna sleep?" Bucky said softly.

"No," Steve said. He shuffled himself on the couch. 

"Here," Bucky said, and pulled Steve's legs onto his lap. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable?"

"Don't, I'm heavy," Steve said, but he'd already stretched out, his legs bent over Bucky's thighs. One of Bucky's hands rested heavily on his calf, the other on his knee. A constant reminder that he wasn't alone.

"You're like a bird, kid," Bucky said. "You need to eat more." 

"Not a kid," Steve muttered. _Don't want to be a kid, not to you,_

"Go sleep, old man." Steve could hear the smile in Bucky's voice. He slept.

* * *

"Why haven't you fixed up your place?" 

Bucky looked over to where Steve was sitting at the table. It was day two of his convalescence and he was doing a hell of a lot better. He'd been eating a bowl of oatmeal with a banana and some honey and had managed to swallow three whole bites. The terrible paleness of his face had brightened to a colour more compatible with life. "What's wrong with my place?"

"You don't have anything on the walls." 

Bucky shrugged. "Maybe I like my walls like that." 

"Full of tiny holes from the missing hooks?"

Bucky frowned at him. "Yeah." 

"But they're so empty," Steve complained. "It's kinda boring." 

"Maybe I like boring." 

That made Steve laugh. "Seriously. It's like you don't even live here." 

The statement made Bucky pause. He remembered feeling exactly that the day that Natasha moved out: That his apartment wasn't a home anymore. Not without her in it. "My ex-girlfriend took all the pictures when she left." Bucky forced his voice to be casual. "Never saw any reason to replace them." 

"Huh," Steve said, as if Bucky's comment had explained a great deal. "Would you ever want to put something up on the wall? Y'know, if you liked it?" 

"Sure," Bucky shrugged again. "I like pictures." 

"Good," Steve said with a satisfied smile. 

"Eat your oatmeal, old man," Bucky said.

* * *

The rest of Bucky's set off passed in the same rhythm of him watching over Steve as he slowly got better. 

It was gratifying to see the positive effects of the antibiotics, how Steve went from needing to sleep all the time to longer periods of wakefulness. How his appetite changed from hardly eating anything to suddenly wanting to eat everything in the apartment. He could tell that Steve felt embarrassed to be relying so heavily on Bucky for help, but the fact that the kid was eating made Bucky really happy. He couldn't remember the last time ordering an extra-large pizza had given him such joy. 

"I don't know how I'm going to pay you back for all of this," Steve said on Bucky's last night off before he started his next set in the morning. They were both sitting on the couch, the remnants of their pizza dinner in the box in front of them. Bucky had indulged himself with a beer, but Steve was drinking water. He was still on his meds and they didn't mix with alcohol. And Bucky had read in one of his textbooks in school that drinking milk increased mucous production, which Steve definitely didn't need. The fact that Bucky still wasn't sure if Steve was even legal wasn’t mentioned. 

The thought made Bucky slide a glance towards Steve's backpack. The longer Steve had been in Bucky's place, the more relaxed he'd gotten, which showed in the way his bag was now leaning up against the couch rather than clutched in his arms. It was good. in a way. It showed the kid was beginning to trust him. But it did nothing for Bucky's curiosity, or his lowkey concern that there were drugs in the bag and Steve hadn't touched them only because he'd been so unwell. Steve hadn't done anything to indicate he was a drug abuser, but Bucky was a paramedic. He was trained to think the worst. 

"You don't have to pay me back," Bucky said. "You getting better's all I need."

Steve frowned. "It doesn't seem like enough, Bucky. I mean, what'd I do to deserve this?"

Bucky shrugged. It wasn't really a question he could answer. Not without talking about his symbol or everything that meant. "It's fine." 

"Doesn't feel fine," Steve muttered. He sat up, a graceful movement of his body that Bucky couldn't help but notice. After five days of antibiotics, three square meals and rest, Steve was looking healthier and more attractive than ever. The flush of fever was finally gone from his cheeks, and his eyes were a bright sky blue instead of the dull blue-grey they'd been. Even the dark circles under his eyes were gone. He looked well and strong and so beautiful it was almost heartbreaking. Bucky tamped down the thought. Steve had given no indication that he found Bucky attractive. Hell, for all he knew, Steve already had a soulmate waiting for him somewhere. The Universe had Steve cross his path just so Bucky could help him. That was all. 

"My antibiotics will be done soon," Steve said. Bucky nodded. Steve had been given a seven-day course and he'd started them in the evening five days ago when Bucky had first brought him home. He only had about two and a half days left. "I should probably think about leaving." 

That caught Bucky up short. He hadn't thought about Steve leaving. Hadn't thought that far ahead. He supposed it made sense, the kid couldn't live on his couch forever. _He could move into my bed_ his brain supplied, which Bucky ruthlessly suppressed. He needed to stop that. He cleared his throat. "I guess. But you can't go back out onto the street. You'll just get sick again." 

"I'm planning on going to California," Steve said. "It's warmer there." _For people living on the street,_ was left unsaid. Bucky's brow creased.

"How you going to get there?" 

Steve shrugged. "Hitchhike, I guess. Or I could work for a while. Earn my way." 

Bucky's eyes slid to Steve's backpack again. Did he mean 'work' as in selling drugs? "What would you do?

Steve shrugged again, then flashed Bucky a blatantly flirtatious smile. "I got some talent hidden up my sleeve." 

Bucky blinked. Was Steve talking about _sex work?_ "What kind of talent?" he asked warily. Prostitution wasn't a criminal offence in New York, but that didn't make it a safe line of work, plus he very much doubted that Steve could afford the fines if he were caught. 

"I'm kind of an artist?" Steve blushed as he said it, like there was something embarrassing about having that kind of skill. 

"Oh yeah?" Bucky brightened, incredibly relieved that Steve hadn't been talking about being a rentboy. "What kind of art?"

"I really like realism," Steve said. "But I'm also good at different stuff. And I've been cartooning people in the Park, when the weather's good." 

"That's so cool. You go to school for that?"

Steve's smile dimmed. "No," he said. "Didn't really have the chance." 

There was a world of hurt there, and it didn't take a genius for Bucky to know that something bad must have happened to cause Steve to end up on the streets. Whether drugs were the cause or the result didn’t matter. The effect was still the same. Bucky’s lips thinned. The more he thought about it, the more unlikely it was that Steve wasn't a drug addict. He'd probably just been too sick to take them while he'd been with Bucky. His constant nightmares were probably from his withdrawal. 

Bucky rubbed a hand down his face, dreading having to have the conversation. "So, what are you on?" He asked. "Heroin? Cocaine? Meth?" 

Steve visibly startled at the question. "You think I'm on drugs?"

"Come on, Steve," Bucky said tiredly. "You're homeless, and you're an artist and you're young. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out. Look, it's okay if you tried some stuff and got in over your head. But you can’t keep doing them. It’s not safe. I'm sure we can find you a rehab—"

"You think I'm on drugs." This time it wasn't a question. Steve's shocked look hadn't changed.

"I'm not judging you for it. I get it. I've seen lots of good kids end up hooked on shit. It happens." 

"Well it didn't happen to me!" Steve's shocked expression was slowly morphing into one of anger and hurt. "Is that what you think of me? That I'm some…some _junkie_ that couldn't get his shit together?"

"No! Steve, I am not judging you for taking drugs! It happens all the time." Bucky tried to keep his voice calm, to remember the communication techniques he'd been taught at Paramedic college. "I just need you to be honest with me, so we can figure this out. I just want to help you." He felt a twinge in his shoulder where his star was. Like the Universe was telling him that what he was doing actually wasn’t helping.

"Well, maybe I don't need your help." Steve stood and grabbed his bag. "I think it's time for me to leave." 

"Steve, don't be stupid." Bucky stood as well, heart beating faster at the idea of Steve going. "It's freezing cold out there and you haven't finished your antibiotics. You don't want to get sick again." 

"Fuck you," Steve snarled. "Fuck you and your Good Samaritan bullshit! I don't need your judgement!"

"I wasn't judging you! I don't judge people who are on drugs! That's not my job!" 

"But it is your job to accuse people of it," Steve shot back. "To assume that…that because I'm _homeless_ I have to be an addict as well! Well fuck you, Barnes. Fuck you and your assumptions. You don't know my story. You don't know me! How _dare_ you accuse me of anything?"

That was a fair point, actually. Bucky was now feeling like maybe he'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. He raised his hands placatingly. "Okay. Okay. You're right. I did accuse you of using drugs when I don't know the whole story. But I don't think that drug abuse isn't a character flaw. Lots of people use drugs and most of them aren't evil. So I wasn't accusing you, understand?" 

Steve's eyes were still dangerously narrowed. "How very opened-minded of you."

"Look, Steve, I’ve seen a lot of people really fuck up their lives because of drugs. I’ve seen people die from it. I just don’t want that to happen to you." 

"I might be homeless, but it doesn't mean I need to stay here." Steve glared at him. "Thanks for the help. I hope you get your fucking merit badge." He went to the door and grabbed his sneakers before looking around. "Where the fuck are my socks?"

"By the couch," Bucky said automatically. His mind was racing as he watched Steve get ready to leave. He cursed himself for saying anything about the drugs. He could've just searched Steve's bag the next time he was asleep and figured it out for himself without Steve ever knowing. By trying to be up-front he'd damaged the tenuous relationship he and Steve had built, and now Steve was going to go back outside into the dark and the cold where death was just a bad night away. "Please, don't leave." 

Steve looked up from where he'd been putting his socks on. "What?"

Bucky winced. It was hard to say he was wrong, but Natasha had told him lots of times that you just had to take it on the chin when you'd fucked up. "You're right. You're right. I really don't know your story and I made an assumption that was wrong. I shouldn't have done that." 

Steve was still looking at him. "What?" 

Bucky straightened his back. "I'm sorry." 

Every line in Steve’s body was stiff with anger. "You don't know anything about me." 

"You're right," Bucky said again. "And I shouldn't've said anything until I knew more. It's the paramedic in me, okay? I can't help but worry." He smiled hopefully. 

"I'm not on the streets because I'm addicted to drugs," Steve said. 

"I believe you," Bucky said immediately. He wasn't entirely sure he did, but he'd say anything if it meant that Steve wouldn't leave. "Now, will you take off your shoes and stop talking about leaving?"

Steve's shoulders softened and he kicked off the one sneaker he'd managed to put on. He went back to the couch and sat down heavily, like the fight they'd had had taken all his strength. "I'm not an addict," he repeated. 

"I know," Bucky said again. He forced himself not to look at Steve's bag that he still was holding tightly to his chest. 

"Whatever," Steve muttered. He closed his eyes, like the sight of Bucky was too much for him to take. 

Bucky sighed, knowing he probably deserved it. Whether or not the kid was on drugs, the way Bucky had approached it had clearly been a mistake. It might have been successful in the back of an ambulance, but not in his living room, and not with someone like Steve. 

Someone who Bucky wanted to trust him. Someone that Bucky might actually be falling for. _Stop it!_ he mentally chastised himself. Steve was younger than him, and in no condition for a relationship with anyone, especially if he really was addicted to drugs like Bucky feared. _It's your saviour complex._ Natasha's voice rang in his head.

It wasn't a saviour complex, though. It was just his constant desire to help others no matter what the cost. Including, apparently, his heart.

* * *

A man was bent over him, holding him down. 

Steve lashed out with his fists; a cry of fear torn from his throat. 

Bucky caught Steve's fist in his palm. "Steve!" he shouted, "It's okay! You're okay! You're safe!" 

Steve woke up. His mind was foggy and full of ugly, brutal images. He felt sick. "Bucky?"

"I'm here, kid, I'm right here." Bucky rubbed his back, his hand sliding up and down the thin T-shirt Steve had borrowed. He shifted away before Bucky could feel the scars. Bucky dropped his hand. "Bad dream?"

Steve nodded and wiped at his eyes. He hadn't even realized he'd been crying. "The worst."

"That's rough," Bucky said. "You want anything? Tea?" He made no move to get up. 

Steve shook his head and buried his face in his hands. He was so tired of this. So tired of his nights being a constant fight against bad dreams. His shoulders shook as he began to cry. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Bucky said. Gently he pulled Steve into his arms, holding him against his chest as Steve cried. Steve gripped him tightly, trembling as his tears ran down his face and onto Bucky's skin. Dimly he realized that Bucky's hands had returned to his back, and that it would be impossible for him not to feel the raised skin there: the crisscrossed ridges that were a permanent example of his failure. It'd been bad enough when Bucky accused him of being so weak, he'd use drugs, but that would be nothing to when Bucky learned the story behind those scars. How weak Steve really was, how cowardly. He needed to pull away before Bucky figured it out. He just clung harder instead, helpless to move against the emotions crashing through him. He wished he could die.

Bucky kept rubbing his back and whispering soothing words into his ear and didn't say anything about the damaged skin beneath his fingertips. Eventually, Steve's tears slowed and he was able to sit up. His face flamed hotter than when he had his fever. "Sorry," he mumbled, too ashamed to look Bucky in the face.

"It's okay. You have nightmares. It's not a big deal." 

"Is to me," Steve said wetly. "And it must be to you, too. How many nights have I interrupted your sleep?"

"Who's counting?" Bucky said easily. He sat back on the couch, his chest a pale expanse in the low light. Steve's mouth went dry as he looked at it. He dropped his eyes. 

"Well, uh, thanks," Steve said after a moment. "Thanks for always helping me out with that. I appreciate it." 

"You shouldn't have to go through that shit alone," Bucky said seriously. "I think it's pretty obvious you're going through a lot." 

"You think?" Steve said without humour. He tilted his head back. "God. I haven't had a good sleep in years." 

"Did you want to talk about it?" Bucky said softly. "I've been told I'm a pretty good listener." 

"You've got work tomorrow!" Steve said, stricken. "Ah shit, Bucky, I woke you up."

"It's okay. We're friends, Steve, friends help each other out." 

Steve looked over at Bucky. He was angled towards Steve on the couch, close enough to touch. He wasn't wearing anything but a pair of dark boxer briefs, which were a tantalizing contrast with his pale skin. "Is that what we are?" Steve asked softly. "Friends?" 

"Yeah." Bucky reached out and put his hand on the back of Steve's head, rubbing the fine hairs. "Friends."

Steve moved into the touch, angling his body so that he was only a hair's breadth from Bucky. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be acting on his attraction. Bucky had done nothing but be helpful and supportive. He didn't need someone as fucked up as Steve making a move on him. 

But Steve was so tired of feeling alone. He was so tired of dealing with nightmares and bad thoughts that came in the middle of the day and wouldn't go away. He just wanted to feel something that wasn't fear or loneliness or a sense of despair so deep he couldn't find his way out. He wanted to feel loved. 

He leaned forward, slowly enough so that Bucky could move if he wanted to. He heard Bucky's sharp intake of breath, and then their lips were touching. Softly at first, tentative like neither one of them had done this before, and then it was like something _snapped_ and Steve found himself in Bucky's arms and straddling Bucky's lap, Bucky's erection pressing into him, hard and insistent. 

Steve moaned, and rubbed his hard cock against Bucky, his whole brain full of monosyllabic words like _please,_ and _now,_ and _more!_ Bucky groaned and tipped him backwards, until his back was flat against the couch and Bucky was between his thighs, both of them fused from chest to hip. Bucky moved lower and gently pushed Steve's T-shirt up before he began kissing down Steve's chest, laving his nipples and licking at the lines of his abdomen. Steve moaned, his hips thrusting unconsciously, the soft cotton of his borrowed sweatpants dampening with his pre-come. 

Bucky paused at the taut skin beneath Steve's belly button as he hooked his fingers under the waistband of Steve's pants. "This okay?" he breathed.

"Yeah," Steve whimpered, and Bucky pulled his pants down and over his straining cock, before taking it into his mouth. Steve's hips bucked and he cried out. Every swipe of Bucky's tongue, every gentle scrape of teeth made Steve feel like his insides were a coil of white-hot desire, tightening and tightening. "God," he moaned. His hands went into Bucky's hair, and he marvelled at how soft the short strands were. Bucky glanced up at him through his lashes, his perfect mouth tilting upwards around Steve's cock. He hummed.

Steve cried out as the vibration tightened the coil even further. His abdominal muscles quivered and his hands moved uselessly over Bucky's head. He was so close. 

"I'm gonna come," he managed to force out, looking down at Bucky as he said it. 

Bucky's hands gripped his hips, exposing the broad expanse of Bucky's shoulders and the crafted definition of his arms. In the low light, Steve could just make out the mark on Bucky's left shoulder. 

It was the outline of a five-pointed star. Bucky's soul mark, and a perfect match for the one on Steve's chest. 

He came, fast and hard enough to white out every thought as his whole body convulsed with pleasure. "Holy shit," he murmured, arm across his eyes. He wasn't sure if that was for his orgasm or for the fact that _Bucky Barnes was his soulmate._ He smiled.

"Liked that, did ya?" Bucky grinned at him, self-satisfied. He licked his lips. It was the sexiest thing Steve had ever seen. 

"Let me show you," Steve said. He stood and pulled up his pants before sliding himself down in between Bucky's knees.

* * *

It was the best fucking blow job of Bucky's life. 

Steve had been both skilled and enthusiastic, which had made Bucky wonder just how old Steve was before his mind was being blown and he was coming so hard he couldn't remember his own damn name. 

He'd wanted to cuddle afterward, but Steve had fallen right asleep. Poor kid didn't get a lot of quality shut eye, what with the constant nightmares, so Bucky wasn't going to keep him from sleeping, no matter how much he wanted to enjoy the afterglow. 

He got up from the couch, carefully so as to not jostle Steve. He immediately stubbed his toe on Steve's bag, swearing with the sudden pain. He froze, and looked at Steve's sleeping form. He was still asleep, clearly dead to the world. 

Bucky stood for a moment, hands on his hips as he contemplated Steve's bag. He remembered their argument from earlier that day, when Steve had been so upset that Bucky had thought he might be using drugs. Bucky had apologized, but he hadn't forgotten. 

Looking through Steve's things would be a big betrayal, and Bucky knew it. He rubbed at his soulmark, wondering what he should do. The medic side of him was screaming at him to _check right now, damnit!_ . He might not judge people who used drugs, but he couldn't just allow Steve to keep them, considering how they could kill him. But the other side of him, the side that was falling hard for Steve, just wanted him to leave it. That side didn't care whether or not Steve used drugs, or why he had so many scars on his back. All the not-paramedic parts of Bucky just wanted Steve as he was, no matter how much risk the drugs might represent. No matter how broken Steve might be. 

_Those scars on his back might be the reason he does drugs,_ Bucky's medic side said. If he did drugs. It made sense. It was clear Steve had suffered some profound abuse. It would explain his nightmares for sure. 

_Fuck._ Bucky scooped up the bag and brought it into his room, being careful to shut the door so the light wouldn't wake Steve. He took a deep breath and opened it, spilling out the contents on his bed.

Steve's bag was a tragedy of minimalism. All Steve had with him was a box of coloured pencils, an artist's sketchbook, and a framed picture of a blond woman who was instantly recognizable as Steve's mom by the beauty of her face and the shape of her eyes. A wallet contained a Social Security Number and five dollars, as well as a drivers' licence that had expired a year ago. There was a pair of dog tags in Steve's bag, showing that he'd been a Corporal once upon a time. There was no evidence of drugs at all. 

"Shit." Bucky rubbed his face, feeling like the worst kind of asshole. Steve had been a soldier, and if his nightmares were any indication, he'd seen active combat at some point. No wonder he'd been homeless. He was probably struggling with PTSD. He wasn't using drugs, just like he'd said. And Bucky hadn't believed him. 

He put his hand on his shoulder, picture the star underneath his fingers. He remembered being a child and waiting breathlessly for the day when his symbol would appear. He'd been sixteen when he'd first seen it: standing in front of the mirrors in the locker room after gym class in Junior year. Before then he'd been a hellion, getting poor grades and breaking rules no matter the consequences. His parents had doted on his sister but hadn't had a lot of time for him. He'd been angry and he'd acted out. He'd made sure they knew how upset he was with every trip to the principal's office and every suspension. 

But then his symbol had appeared, a perfect five-pointed star on his left shoulder, and he'd immediately realized what the Universe had wanted from him. He was meant to be a force for good. 

And yet, here he was, going through Steve's things because he couldn't risk Steve’s life, even though it meant he’d betrayed him. 

Carefully, Bucky packed everything back up into the bag and quietly put it back where he'd found it. There was no way Steve would know what happened. Bucky's secret was safe. 

He went to bed and stared up at the dark ceiling, thinking about what he'd done. He'd had sex with Steve and then immediately went through his bag. He'd shown Steve how much he cared for him, and then instantly betrayed him. The fact that he'd been so certain Steve was using, and so afraid for his life didn't mitigate the guilt. And he had no idea how to make it better.

"I'll talk to him tomorrow," Bucky vowed to himself. Hopefully Steve would be awake before he had to go to work. But if not, he'd make sure to have that conversation as soon as he got home. He'd come clean about going through Steve's bag. And then he'd throw himself on the floor and beg for Steve's forgiveness. 

Because he'd fallen in love with Steve. He'd fallen in love without even seeing his symbol. And even if they were a match, after this Steve might not want anything to do with him. 

Of course, if they weren't a match, then it wouldn't matter if Steve forgave him or not. It would be like losing Natasha all over again.

_You didn't think it through very well, did ya?_ he chastised himself. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep. It took a very long time.

* * *

By the time Steve woke, Bucky was gone. 

For a second Steve panicked, stupidly wondering if Bucky had left him for good despite how Bucky would have to return to his own apartment. And then he remembered that Bucky was a paramedic and he was back on shift. He'd said he'd be home some time after six p.m. if the day wasn't too bad. 

Steve stretched and got up, rubbing at his back. While he was grateful to have a warm place to sleep, the couch had gotten distinctly uncomfortable. He wondered if now that they'd had sex if it would be okay to share Bucky's bed. He smiled to himself, liking the idea. 

He got cleaned up and dressed, slipping into his jeans and socks and another FDNY sweatshirt that Bucky had lent him. This one was black with white lettering. Bucky had a ton of them, and they were all in shades of grey, navy blue or black. It made Steve smile. 

Steve went into the kitchen and took his antibiotic before heating up the coffee Bucky had made. There was a note by the coffee pot: _See you tonight,_ with a heart. "Sap." Steve grinned. He could hardly wait for Bucky to get home. 

Absently, he rubbed the symbol on his chest, thinking about last night. Bucky had been such a conscientious and caring lover, never pushing Steve faster than he'd wanted to go, and making sure that he liked everything they'd done. They'd known each other for such a short time, but it was obvious that Bucky was a good friend and an even better lover. Once he'd calmed down, Steve had even understood Bucky's accusations that he'd been using drugs. Bucky was a paramedic, after all. They got worried about stuff like that. He'd even apologized afterwards, which said a lot about his integrity. Bucky was a really good guy. Steve was so lucky that they were soulmates.

Steve's hand stilled over the star on his chest. He'd seen Bucky's symbol on his shoulder last night, but he didn't think that Bucky knew he'd seen. And Bucky hadn't seen Steve without his shirt. He'd been far too respectful of Steve's privacy to have even seen it by accident. They'd had sex without Bucky knowing they were soulmates. 

The breakfast Steve ate felt leaden in his stomach. Would Bucky even _want_ them to be soulmates? It wasn't like he'd said anything lovey-dovey, the tiny heart Bucky had left on the note didn't count. _And why would he?_ Steve thought bitterly. He was a homeless vet who had terrible nightmares. His back was a mess of scars Steve knew there was no way Bucky could have missed them through the thin cloth of his shirt. Steve was as broken on the inside as he was scarred on the outside. There was nothing about him that Bucky would actually want. 

"I kissed him first," Steve whispered in growing horror. He'd practically attacked Bucky when all that Bucky had been doing was comforting him. The fact that Bucky reciprocated was because of how eager Steve was. He was essentially panting for it. Bucky might be a great guy, but he was only human. Of course he'd have sex with someone that keen. 

Steve was mortified, stricken with what he'd done. The only saving grace was that Bucky didn't know they were soulmates. Because someone as kind and handsome and _good_ as Bucky would never reject his soulmate, even if it were someone he wanted to reject. Like Steve. 

His heart was pounding, a sickening drum beat that made his head hurt. "I need to leave," he said out loud. It took only moments for him to find his tan hoodie and his long-sleeve T-shirt, and he tucked them into his bag. He grabbed his antibiotics and then pulled on his shoes. He went to leave but paused. It was still February in New York. He still didn't have a coat. 

_Forgive me._ Steve opened the small closet by the door and rifled through it until he found a black ski jacket with white racing stripes down the sleeves. It fit in the shoulders, though hung loose around his slender frame. But it was way warmer than anything Steve owned. He just hoped Bucky wouldn't miss it. Before he could think too much about it, he grabbed the twenty dollars Bucky had left on the counter all week, and a pen. Then he took the sketch book from his bag and tore out a page. Carefully, he placed it on the counter. _Thank you for everything,_ he wrote.

He made sure to pull the door closed tightly behind him.

* * *

"He's gone." 

Natasha's green eyes narrowed in comprehension. "I assume you mean the homeless guy who's been staying at your place?"

He'd called her as soon as he’d hit the street. After they'd broken up, they'd stopped working so hard to be on the same rotation and she'd ended up nearly opposite. It meant they'd only had to work together about four times a month, which actually had helped Bucky get over her. 

But now he was just happy because she wasn’t working nights this set. She'd be able to help him find Steve.

"Yeah." Bucky rubbed his hands together and then shoved them back in his pockets. He'd arrived home from his shift, taken off his gloves, coat and boots by the door and then noticed that the twenty and Steve's bottle of pills were both missing from the counter. He hadn’t even come all the way into his apartment, just put both his coat and boots back on and walked out the door to go try to find him. He just wished he'd thought to bring his gloves. 

"How long?" Natasha asked. Trust Natasha to cut right to the chase and not fuck around with irrelevancies, like why he'd be trying to track down a homeless guy in the first place. He'd always love her a little bit for that alone. He was so fucking thankful she’d forgiven him. 

"Dunno." Bucky shrugged. "Could be as early as this morning."

"Plans?"

"Said he wanted to go to California." 

"Hm. Any money?"

"Five bucks in his wallet and twenty from my counter."

Natasha looked at him side-eyed. "You went through his things?"

"I thought he might have drugs." Bucky's mouth thinned. "And no, I'm not proud of it." 

"Do you think that's why he left?" 

"I've been asking myself that." 

"Did he leave a note?"

"I didn’t look," Bucky said. "We need to find him."

"He might’ve left a note,” Natasha said, then sighed when she saw Bucky’s tight expression. “We’ll find him.”

“Mayor's going to call an alert. Bad night to be on the streets." He blew on his hands, cold without his gloves; and wondered how cold Steve would be without a coat. "So, where do we look?" 

"We'll contact all the shelters and emergency departments," Natasha said matter-of-factly. "Any chance he wouldn't use his real name?" 

Bucky exhaled. "No idea. It depends on how hard he's trying to hide from me, I guess." 

Natasha's look told him that she didn't find his joke funny, except he hadn't been joking. "What did you do?"

"Besides invade his privacy? We had sex, alright? And I'm worried that's why he left." 

"You're pretty good at sex, if I recall," Natasha said dryly. "But seriously, why would that make him leave?"

"Because maybe he's figured out I'm in love with him. And he doesn't feel the same way." Bucky jammed his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. 

"That's not it," Natasha said confidently. "He'd be lucky to have a guy like you."

"Oh yeah?" Bucky snapped, old hurt flaring. "If I'm so great, why'd you leave?"

"Because we're not soulmates. You know that." 

"Yeah, I know." Bucky said. "But what we had? It should've been enough. _I_ should've been enough."

"You were, you _are._ " Natasha took his arm. "But it's not the same as being with Sam, and you know it."

"I would've stayed with you." 

"Liar," Natasha laughed. "If you'd met your soulmate first, you would've dropped me in a hot second. Don't pretend you wouldn't." 

"I wouldn't've," Bucky said. "I loved you, Nat." 

"And I still love you. You're my best friend, and you always will be. And no one is going to celebrate more than me when we find your soulmate." 

Bucky's smile was sad. "I don't know if Steve's my soulmate, Nat." 

"You don't know that he's not." 

Bucky thought back to the night before, and how good being with Steve felt. How _right._ Was it possible that he and Steve shared the same symbol and he just didn't know? "But if he's my soulmate, why did he leave?"

"You'll have to ask him," Natasha said. They walked together along the sidewalk, still busy despite the cold weather. The sky was clear and dark, and even with all the lights from the city, a few stars could be seen. 

It was a beautiful night, and as much as Bucky loved Natasha, he wished he could be sharing the night with Steve. Instead he was worried sick that something had happened to him. Even in a city as big and populous as New York, when it got this cold, people died. 

Natasha looked over at Bucky. "Don't worry, we'll find him."

Bucky nodded, but didn't say anything.

* * *

It was now full night and Bucky and Natasha's search for Steve had come up empty. 

Natasha looked up from her cell phone. "No one's seen him," she said with a frown. "I even asked Barton and Maximoff to go to Stark Memorial directly to check, and he's found nothing." 

"Okay," Bucky said," he hasn't gone to a shelter and he hasn't gone to the hospital. Where else would you go if it's cold and you don't want to be outside?"

"You said he wanted to go to California, right?" Natasha said. "Would he try heading out tonight?"

"He doesn't have any money," Bucky said, but he pulled out his phone and keyed in "buses to California" into the search engine. "They leave from the Port Authority. Last one goes at 11:30."

"It's 11 now. We'd better hustle." They jogged to the curb and miraculously flagged down a taxi. This late at night, traffic was slightly less awful than the day, but they still pulled up in front of the Port Authority at 11:20. Natasha threw some money at the driver and they both took off running. 

Steve was lying on one of the benches, wearing Bucky's ski jacket. Fast asleep. Bucky breathed deeply, trying to get his heart rate to slow. Steve was safe. _He was safe!_ Right that second it was all that mattered.

"That your boy?" Natasha asked. "Is he wearing your ski jacket?"

"I gave it to him," Bucky lied. 

She frowned. "How old is he? He looks like he's twelve." 

"I have no idea," Bucky said honestly. He thought of the dog tags and the drivers' licence he'd found in Steve's bag, and realized he could actually answer that question. "He's twenty-three." 

"He doesn't look that old," Natasha sniffed. "But as long as he's legal." she went over to him and shook him on the shoulder. "Hey, Buddy. You can't sleep here." 

"Wha?" Steve sat up. He rubbed his eyes and then opened them. His whole face brightened before it clouded. "Bucky?"

"Hey, Steve." Bucky's heart dropped at the change in Steve's expression. Steve really didn't want him. 

"What are you doing here?" 

"We were looking for you." Natasha gestured at Bucky. "He was worried." 

"I wasn't _worried,_ worried," Bucky said quickly. He could tell that Steve wasn't happy that he'd shown up at the bus station. The last thing he wanted to do was to make Steve feel smothered. 

"Right," Natasha drawled. "And yet I've been walking around the city in the freezing cold for the last five hours regardless. Probably time for me to head home." She turned and headed towards the exit. "See ya," she called. 

"Thanks," Bucky called to her. "I owe you one." 

She waved at him from over her shoulder.

"You were looking for me?" Steve asked. He was clutching his bag to his chest. The sight of it made guilt roll in Bucky's stomach. He needed to apologize to Steve, but there was no way he could do it there. 

"Can we go back to my place?" Bucky raised his hands at Steve's startled expression. "Just to talk?"

He saw the bob of Steve's Adam's apple. "I'm not sure that would be such a good idea." 

Bucky closed his eyes for a second to ward off the stab of pain at Steve's words. It was horribly obvious that Steve had either figured out that Bucky had gone through his stuff, or that Bucky had fallen in love with him, or both, and was miserable about it. "Tell you what," Bucky said desperately, "you come home with me tonight—just to talk—and I'll buy you a bus ticket to wherever you want to go tomorrow. No questions asked. Deal?"

Steve was wavering. He glanced around the bus station as if comparing it to Bucky's apartment in his mind's eye. "Are you telling me you'd rather sleep in a bus station than on my couch?"

Steve laughed at that and stood. "Your couch is fine. And I only need fifty dollars to get to Atlanta." 

He was coming home with him just for the bus ticket. Steve wasn't his soulmate, and no matter how great their night had been, it clearly meant more to Bucky than it had to Steve. Bucky firmed his mouth, willing himself to not let the hurt show. "I'll buy you a ticket all the way to California," he said. His voice sounded only a little tight.

* * *

Steve cursed himself for being so weak.

He'd had it all planned out: He was going to do quick sketches of the bus travellers and charge five dollars apiece. It wouldn't have taken him that long to earn enough money for a ticket to Atlanta and some food besides. Atlanta was warmer than New York in the winter. He could've taken the time to earn enough to go all the way to California by the Spring. 

But then Bucky appeared, looking exactly like a knight from a fairy tale, and Steve had gone back home with him as easily as Little Red Riding Hood getting led into Grandma's house. Only that metaphor didn't really work because Steve had actually been the one to steal money and a coat from Bucky. So maybe he was more like the wolf? 

Especially since, as soon as Bucky found out that they were soulmates, Steve would actually be stealing Bucky's freedom as well. And then he wouldn't just be a wolf, he'd be a monster.

 _Don't be so dramatic!_ he chastised himself. Bucky was an adult. If he didn't want to be Steve's soulmate, he'd walk away. Most likely. Maybe. Steve bit his lip. 

Even though they'd cabbed it back from the Port Authority and only had to walk a short distance from the curb to Bucky's building, Steve was still chilled by the time they went inside. He took off his shoes and then his borrowed ski jacket, being careful to hang it up in the closet where he found it. It would be pretty tough without it over the next few days until he got to Atlanta, but he couldn’t take it now. 

Bucky was watching him, his beautiful mouth curved downward.

Steve blushed. "Um, here," he said, going into his bag and pulling out the twenty from his wallet. "I'm sorry I took it." 

Bucky's frown deepened. "You can keep it. The jacket too." 

Steve wanted to protest, but he needed both the money and the jacket if he had any hope of making it all the way to California. It would take almost two days before he got somewhere warm. "I'll pay you back." 

Bucky waved him off. "You want anything to drink? Coffee? Beer? I think I got beer." He went to the fridge and pulled out two craft beers pausing and putting them back. "You're still on antibiotics. I forgot." He stood in front of the fridge, looking lost. 

"Did you find my picture?" Steve asked after the silence had gotten heavy. Steve could see it on the counter where he'd left it. He desperately wanted Bucky to like it, and wished he didn't care so much. 

"What?" Bucky said, then looked down to the counter. "Oh, hey." He picked it up and looked at it. "Is this me?"

"Yeah," Steve's face heated. He'd drawn a black and white picture of Bucky in his FDNY uniform in the natural realism style. He'd never seen Bucky in it, but photos of paramedics in their uniforms were all over the internet and easy to find. He'd posed Bucky from memory in a close up of his face, hair artfully mussed and collar of his uniform just visible in the picture. In it, Bucky was staring into the distance, looking calm and confident and desperately handsome. His mouth was still but his eyes were smiling. Steve was sure it was some of his best work. 

"Holy shit," Bucky murmured, still staring at the picture. His gaze met Steve's "Is this how you see me?"

"Sure." Steve shrugged. He didn't know if Bucky thought it was a good or bad thing. 

"Wow." Carefully, Bucky put the picture back down on the counter. "Wow," he said again. 

"I'm glad you liked it." Steve smiled, though it felt awkward. He suddenly wondered if the drawing showed too much of how he felt for Bucky. Like a visual declaration of his love. "It's for your walls." 

"Yeah," Bucky said. "I'll put it up. Definitely." He took a breath. "Can we sit down?"

"Sure." Steve went over to the couch and sat, leaving enough room for Bucky to sit, too. Bucky didn't sit. He put ran his hands through his hair and turned to face Steve instead. 

_He knows we're soulmates._ Steve felt torn in half. One part of him wanted to get away to stop Bucky from ruining his life, even if it meant going all the way to California. The other part of him wanted to jump into Bucky's arms and kiss him senseless. He clutched his bag to him. _Mom,_ he thought, thinking of the picture inside, _what do I do?_

"I went through your bag," Bucky blurted suddenly. "The other night. After you went to sleep. I took it and went through it. I'm sorry." 

Steve blinked. "You went through my bag?"

"Yeah." Bucky nodded. "I thought there might be drugs in there. I thought maybe you'd lied. I know now that you didn't, and I should never have checked. I'm sorry." His shoulders were back, chin out like he was expecting a blow, but Steve felt like he was the one who'd been struck. 

"You went through my things?"

"Yeah," Bucky said again. "I invaded your privacy. I shouldn't have done it. and I'm sorry. I was going to tell you this morning, but you weren't awake before I left. I didn't want you to find out before I'd had a chance to tell you, but I guess I wasn't that lucky? Anyway. I get why you left. Why you'd want to leave because of what I did. But, um, I hope you'll stay? At least for tonight? It's a lot warmer here than the bus station." His smile was sad.

Steve's head was spinning. Bucky had looked through his bag because he hadn't believed him about not being on drugs. He thought he'd lied. He'd gone into his most private possession without invitation and seen all Steve's secrets. He'd seen _everything._ He saw his art, his mom's picture, and he'd seen his dog tags. He knew Steve had been in the army. It felt like Steve was being flayed alive, like all the secrets buried underneath his skin had been pulled out into the open, like he'd been ripped apart—

_He could feel the whip ripping apart his back, each blow removing bloody chunks of skin. He'd been stoic at first, keeping the cries of anguish behind his teeth, until the steady increase of pain had been too much for him to contain. He'd whimpered, then cried out, then he'd started screaming and he couldn't stop. He was screaming now, begging for Bakar to stop. Pleading with him not let him die that way. To kill him quickly and stop the pain—_

"Steve, Steve! It's okay, you're okay! You're safe!" Someone was holding him, pressing him firmly against a strong chest, stroking his back and soothing away the memory. He wasn't in Afghanistan. He wasn't being tortured. He was in New York with Bucky. He was safe. 

"Bucky?" 

"It's me," Bucky said. "I'm here." 

Steve wiped at his eyes. His face was wet from his tears and hot from shame. "I'm sorry you had to see that." 

"Nothing to be sorry for," Bucky said softly. He was still holding Steve and stroking his back, his fingertips gliding over ridges of scar tissue like they were delicate and not disgusting. "I'm sorry I caused that."

"You saw my dog tags." 

"I get why you hide them, if thinking about them brings up memories like that." He brushed his hand along the nape of Steve's neck. "You were screaming pretty hard." 

Steve leaned into Bucky. "My time in the army wasn't great." 

"I figured." Bucky kissed Steve's temple. "And like I said, I'm sorry that I caused that by going through your things. I should never have done it." 

"I get why you did," Steve said. "Being a paramedic makes you think a lot of bad things." 

He felt Bucky nod. "I’ve seen too many people die from drugs. But it doesn’t mean I had the right to do what I did."

"I didn't lie to you." 

"I know," Bucky said. "And I'm really sorry."

It was the perfect opening for Steve to confess his own secret: to let Bucky know that they were soulmates. But he knew he wouldn't. He _couldn't._ Bucky was too noble, too good. As soon as Steve told him, Bucky would consider them committed, and probably for life. Steve was way too fucked up to deserve someone like Bucky. He'd never want to force him into something that would end up making Bucky miserable. There was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to leave.

"You've gone quiet." Bucky ran his hand over Steve's hair. 

"I can't stay," Steve said quickly before he succumbed to Bucky's soft touches and kind heart. "I'll stay tonight, but tomorrow I need to go." He moved out of Bucky's grasp.

Bucky's laugh was humourless. "I guess I blew it, huh?"

"I'm sorry," Steve said. He couldn't meet Bucky's eyes.

* * *

Bucky's sleep was fitful and broken with bad dreams. 

His actions from the night before kept running around and around in his head. Sex with Steve, and then looking through his things. Ultimate happiness to ultimate betrayal. 

He woke for the umpteenth time just before dawn and thirty minutes before his alarm was meant to go off and he groaned. His day was set to begin and he was already exhausted. 

Of course, the broken heart didn't help any, either.

He lay on his back staring up at the ceiling, watching the headlamps of cars run across his wall and fade away in the early morning gloom. He wished that there was something he could do to make it up to Steve, some way he could apologize.

Bucky touched the star on his left shoulder, wishing he could feel the lines beneath his fingertips. Ever since his symbol had first appeared, he'd always prided himself on living up to what it represented. He knew he was a good medic. He worked hard to treat his patients with dignity and kindness, and even sometimes save someone’s life. He strove to be good at his job. Someone worthy of the title of New York's Bravest. 

But somehow all his good intentions had fallen apart with Steve. Steve wasn't a patient, he hadn't really asked for help, and yet Bucky searched his bag like Steve was being transported to hospital. It hurt to realize that he wasn't the man he'd always thought he was. It hurt to realize he'd let Steve, himself and the Universe down.

He understood why Steve was leaving. 

"I have to do better," he murmured into the dark of his room. Too bad he knew Steve wouldn't be able to give him the chance. 

Bucky got up with a sigh. Today's shift was going to be really hard, knowing that Steve would be gone by the end of it. Maybe Steve would be okay with them staying in contact. At least so Bucky could know that he got safely to California, that he was settling in and finding friends. That he wouldn't have to be on the street. 

He went out into the living room, walking softly so as to not wake Steve up. Normally he'd hit the shower before doing anything else, but his routine had been blown by his too-early morning. _I'll put some coffee on,_ he decided. Today was going to be a day where he'd need a lot of it. 

He noticed the couch was empty immediately, and his heart stopped before he realized that Steve's black bag was still on the floor. At least he still had the chance to say good-bye. 

The picture Steve had drawn of him was still on the counter. It looked like the best version of him: someone noble and good who always did the right thing. He knew Steve had drawn the picture before Bucky had gone through his bag and broken his trust. He wondered if Steve were to re-draw it, what the picture would look like now. But Bucky knew he'd keep that picture regardless. Even if he never was that person, he'd keep it as a reminder that once upon a time someone had seen him like that. Someone he loved. 

Bucky put on the coffee and then debated what to do next. Steve was clearly in the bathroom so his shower would have to wait. He wasn't hungry. The combination of his exhaustion and the sick feeling from Steve leaving had killed any pretense of an appetite. Steve might be hungry, though. He'd probably appreciate a good breakfast. 

Bucky got out the stuff to make bacon and eggs. He wondered if cutting up some fruit to go along with it would be too much, then decided fuck it and grabbed an orange as well. He started the bacon frying and got down the cutting board for the fruit. There was a noise behind him and he turned to see Steve standing in the middle of the living room, short hair wet and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. 

Bucky dropped the cutting board.

There, in the middle of Steve's chest, was a perfect white five-point star. It was the same star that Bucky had on his left shoulder. Their symbols matched. They were soulmates. 

Steve's blue eyes were wide in shock. He put a hand over his symbol protectively. 

"Is that your soulmark?" Bucky asked stupidly. He knew damn well what it was. 

"I'm sorry!" Steve grabbed the clothing that he'd piled on the arm of the couch and bolted for the bathroom. Bucky heard the door slam shut. 

Bucky turned off the bacon. He picked up his cell phone from the counter and dialed the sick call line for work. "It's James Barnes of the 99th under Lieutenant Fury," he said to the voice mail, "I'm not going to be in today."

Then he stood staring at nothing for a very long time.

* * *

He couldn't hide in there forever.

Steve stood in the bathroom, his whole body trembling. His attempt to leave before Bucky had gotten up for work had backfired spectacularly. Now Bucky knew the one thing that Steve had wanted to keep a secret: the fact that their symbols were the same. He was wearing his own jeans but yet another borrowed FDNY sweatshirt. He hadn't planned on taking it, not really, but Bucky had lent him several at the beginning of the week and Steve had found it really hard to give any of them back. The idea of taking nothing but memories felt too hard to bear.

But now Bucky knew they were soulmates. There was no way that Bucky would let him just leave. 

Steve groaned and sagged against the locked door, letting his body weight take him to the ground. He felt sick and guilty as hell. The last thing he'd ever wanted to do was to saddle Bucky with a fucked-up disaster like himself. But there was part of him that was positively gleeful that this secret had been revealed. He wanted to stay here. To stay with his soulmate so badly. Would it really be so wrong if he stayed?

 _You can't_ he reminded himself. There were so many reasons why Bucky shouldn't be with him and none why he should. Besides the desire in Steve's heart. 

He covered his face in his hands, willing himself to have enough strength to get up, open the door and actually leave. 

There was a pounding on the wood behind him. "Steve? It's Bucky. Open up." 

Steve froze, heart pounding. He had no idea what he could say. 

"Steve!" Bucky shouted. "If you don't open this door right goddamn now, I'm going to bust it down!" 

Steve stood and opened the door. 

Bucky was on the other side, hair disheveled and chest heaving. He looked like he'd been on a defective roller coaster and wasn't sure he'd actually managed to get off. "Steve?" he said, and there was a wealth of confusion and hurt in that one word. "What the fuck?"

"I—" Steve started, and then it was like his knees gave out and he fell forward into Bucky's arms. Their mouths connected and then they were kissing, hard and desperate and with every ounce of longing that Steve had been trying to fight since he'd first seen the star on Bucky's shoulder. 

Bucky pulled Steve out of the bathroom and down the hall to his bedroom, all without disconnecting their lips from each other. The back of Steve's legs hit the edge of the mattress and then he was on his back with the borrowed sweatshirt yanked up and over his head between one breath and the next. Bucky had somehow taken off his shirt as well, and Steve could see it: The perfect star on Bucky's shoulder. Then Bucky's mouth was on him, pressing against his lips, his neck, his chest. The feeling of Bucky mouthing at the outline of the star made Steve moan and his cock press hard against the seam of his jeans. 

"That's my symbol," Bucky said against Steve's skin. "You're my soulmate. My fucking soulmate. And I ain't never going to let you go."

The words were like being pushed outside into the cold. Steve sat up. "Bucky." 

Bucky stopped. "Steve?"

"I can't." Steve shook his head. "Bucky, I can't." 

"Why not?" Bucky's grey eyes were beseeching. "Steve, we're soulmates!"

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry. But…" He took a breath, loathe to say out loud what Bucky already knew to be true. "I'm a mess, Buck. I'm homeless and I've got horrible nightmares, and my back—"

"I know," Bucky said. "I know all that, Steve. And it doesn't take a genius to figure out that it's all because something terrible happened to you when you were in the army. And I can help you. Get you treatment, get you help—"

"No. No." Steve was shaking his head before Bucky had even finished. "Nothing can help me. Believe me, I've tried! I'm." He paused, took another breath to fortify himself for his final confession. "I'm weak, Bucky. I'm spineless and weak and you shouldn't be with me. You deserve someone so much better—"

"Weak?" Bucky cut him off. "Steve, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"I was tortured." 

"What?" Bucky looked horror-struck. _"When?"_

Steve closed his eyes, unwilling to see the disgust that he knew would be reflected on Bucky's face. "I was part of the convoy that was guarding Tony Stark when he came to test the Jericho Missile in Afghanistan." 

"I remember that. I saw it on the news a couple of years ago. I thought everyone but him died." 

"Everyone did die," Steve said. "Except him and me. When they first attacked the convoy, we all got out of the Humvee to fight back. They blew it up and everyone died. But I was thrown clear. I woke up in a cave somewhere in the mountains. A prisoner of the Ten Rings." 

"Jesus," Bucky whispered. 

Steve nodded. "It, um. Got worse after that. They used me as a way to motivate Stark to build them weapons. They hurt me. _tortured—_ "

"It's okay," Bucky soothed, once again taking Steve into his arms. Steve could feel the heat of Bucky's chest against his back as Bucky held him. "You don't have to tell me any of this." 

"But I do. You have to _understand._ " He cleared his throat. "Every day they did something to me. Beatings, whippings, electricity…But they never touched my chest. They said…" Steve had to clear his throat again as tears burned his eyes. "They said that they wanted to keep my symbol intact, so my government could identify my corpse." 

"Oh my God." Bucky's arms tightened around him. 

"It was after that, that I broke. Somehow knowing that I was never going to get out of that place. That all that pain was for _nothing…_ " He swallowed down another rush of tears. 

"It's okay, it's okay," Bucky said. "it doesn't matter anymore." 

"But it does!" Steve pushed away from him. "Don't you understand? _I broke!_ I broke down and begged them not to kill me! Said I'd tell them anything they wanted. I _begged_ —" Steve sobbed against Bucky's chest, shame coursing through him. He remembered every second of that moment: how it was like he was separated from his body, watching himself plead for mercy as tears, snot and blood ran down his face. He remembered Bakar laughing as he ran his hands through Steve's hair, telling him how pathetic he was, how weak. Telling him that, if the whole American military was this pitiful, it was a wonder they had won any wars at all. 

When Tony Stark had blasted all the terrorists to dust and they'd been rescued by the Air Force, the first thing Steve did when he'd been discharged from hospital was to shave his head so no one could ever run their fingers through his hair again. 

"How old were you?" Bucky asked, mouth against his temple. "When all this happened?"

"Twenty," Steve said with surety. "I'd just gotten my Corporal's stripes."

"You were just a kid!" Bucky said. "Jesus, Stevie!" 

"I'd been in the military for three years by that point," Steve said. "I joined right after my mother died." 

"Jesus," Bucky said again. "You poor kid." 

"I wasn't a kid!" Steve said hotly. "I was _weak_ —"

"You were a _kid!_ " Bucky snapped at him. "Hell, even the FDNY won't let you become a firefighter until you're at least twenty-one! Twenty's just…" He shook his head. "You shouldn't've gone through that." 

"But I did. And I broke! I would've told them _anything_ to get them to stop. I was weak and I broke, and I don't deserve to be your soulmate!" Steve's chest heaved with the effort of saying it. 

Bucky ran his hands over Steve's head. "Steve—"

"No Bucky. I'm right about this. You deserve someone brave and strong. At least as brave as you, and I'm not that. I'll _never_ be that. Which is why I'm going to go to California so you can find someone better." 

Bucky's grey eyes narrowed. "Don't you think I should get a say in all this? This decision for you to leave because I ‘deserve better?’" He made air quotes with his fingers around the last two words. 

"But you're too good," Steve said. "You're decent, and kind, you took me in when you didn't even _know_ me. When you thought I was lying about being on drugs—"

"—That's not actually a good thing."

"You're too good," Steve repeated. "You'd take me as your soulmate because you'd feel obligated to. Not because…" _Because you'd actually want me._ He couldn't bring himself to finish. 

"Jesus Christ," Bucky swore. "How the hell did you get the impression that I'm some kinda saint?"

"Well, you did take me in—"

"Look," Bucky interrupted. "I'm as fucked up and flawed as everyone else. You think I'm perfect? Too good for you? I ain't perfect at all. You don't believe me?" he said at Steve's incredulous look. "Here, lemme tell ya a story. Once upon a time there was a guy, named Bucky, who was madly in love with a girl. He loved her more than anything, and he wanted to marry her one day even though they weren't soulmates.

"They weren't soulmates, but Bucky would've given anything for them to stay together. One night, he was hanging out at the hospital waiting for his partner to finish their paperwork, when he meets this Physician's Assistant named Sam. Sam was wearing short sleeved scrubs, and Bucky could see the spider-shaped tattoo on his bicep clear as day. Now, Natasha, the girl he loved, also had a mark that was shaped like a spider, and Bucky knew right away that Natasha and Sam were soulmates. But he loved her so much that he couldn't bear the thought of losing her." Bucky stopped talking.

Steve's eyes widened. "You didn't tell her." 

"Nope." Bucky shook his head. "Natasha didn't find out she and Sam were soulmates until about two months later when she ended up meeting him in the emerg. She figured out pretty quick that I'd known for a while and just hadn't told her. She moved out that night. Didn't speak to me for almost six months after. Still think I'm so wonderful?"

"But you loved her," Steve said.

"Yup. But I also lied to her. I lied to keep her with me, her own happiness be damned. It was against my own moral code, but I didn't care." 

"You loved her," Steve repeated. "You couldn't help it." 

"I know. But I did it." Bucky's mouth twisted. "The idea of being without her broke me. I wanted to avoid the pain of her leaving me _so bad_ that I became someone I didn't recognize. Someone I didn't like. And no one was splitting my back open with a whip." 

"But it's normal to want to avoid being in pain," Steve said. "Pain is terrible." 

"Yep." He looked at Steve. "Kind of like torture." 

Steve blinked as he digested Bucky's words. "But I would've told them anything." 

"I think that's what torture is supposed to make people do," Bucky said quietly. "Sounds to me like you lasted longer than most." 

"I don't know how to think about that," Steve said.

"Then don't. Not right now," Bucky said. "There's no rush." 

"But what about California?" Steve said. 

"You're not going. Not now, at least." 

It was amazing how much of a relief Steve felt hearing Bucky say those words. "You're really okay with me staying?"

"You're my soulmate," Bucky said with finality. "C'mere." He pulled Steve down with him until they were lying together on the bed, Steve's head on Bucky's chest. 

"But I'm so messed up, Buck," Steve whispered.

"Nothing a little therapy and a lot of time can't fix." Bucky gave Steve a small squeeze. "It'll get better." 

"I joined the military because of my star," Steve said quietly. "I thought it was an image of the stars on the flag. A message from the Universe." 

"No kiddin'? That's the reason I became a paramedic. A star on my shoulder, like the Star of Life on a medic’s patch." 

"The Star of Life isn’t even shaped like a star!"

"I never said I was smart." 

Steve laughed. "We're both suckers, aren't we?"

"Nope. If I hadn't become a paramedic, I never would've found you outside my station. If you hadn't become a solider, well." He shrugged. 

Steve thought about what Bucky had just said. "So, if I hadn't become a soldier and gone to Afghanistan, I might never have met you?"

"I don't know about that," Bucky said musingly, "but we did meet because you did, so…" Steve felt the rise of one shoulder under his cheek as Bucky shrugged. 

"And you're happy we met?" Steve asked softly. "That we're soulmates?"

"Yeah," Bucky said against his hair. "And you? You're okay with me? Even though I went through your stuff?"

"Yeah." Steve sighed with contentment, enjoying the feel of skin against skin. 

"Well then, I guess the Universe knew what she was doing when she put those symbols on us," Bucky said. 

"I guess," Steve agreed. He smiled.

END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Moodboard for "You're the One (I Was Meant to Find)" by Squeaky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27564025) by [Taste_is_Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet)




End file.
